The Book of Life: The Lost Chapters
by SilyaBeeodess
Summary: Our destinies are never written in stone, but one decision can change everything. La Muerte and Xibalba protect the Book of Life from any who would use its power to change the course of fate, however, when mortals-oblivious to its magic-manage to steal the book, history risks being rewritten. The unlikeliest of alliances may be the only thing left to save the future.
1. Prologue

Despite the clear light of day and the oddities that would normally quickly draw attention to the two strange characters, their powers hid them from mortal eyes like a blanketing veil. Any passerby that made his journey past the museum would simply fade through the pair with no knowledge of their presence—yet perhaps feeling a ghostly chill from the strange, unconscious action that had transpired—and carry on his merry way to whatever his destination may be. They were expelled from existence in the eyes of the world and, as the lord and lady of death shared that tender moment of a kiss of long-standing love, the feeling was equally returned: In one another's embrace, the realm about them was nothing more than a blur and time revealed itself as the illusion it truly was.

It was not without a begrudged, breathless sigh when the enchantress that was his beloved pulled her lips from his own. His wings, black as night, seemed to whisper his dismay at the pair's parting as they folded back into place. Still, he held her close, nuzzling his forehead against hers in a soft caress. And no matter how many times he found himself gazing deep into her eyes—as pure and as rich a gold as the sun itself—he was always bewitched by them, caught by and helpless to their warm glow.

Eventually, he relented his hold around her and she his while the last essences of the sky's evening hues painted the horizon. Though they could teleport wherever they pleased, it was as if on some silent agreement that they began to walk along the nearly quiet streets, linked hand in hand. Why waste a perfect twilight stroll? Their lands could survive without them for a little while.

"So," La Muerte exhaled with a gentle grin, "What do you think? Would any of them make a Bookkeeper?"

"If it gets that thing off our hands any faster," Xibalba replied, "then yes. But in all honesty, my dear, I haven't seen anyone yet to fill that position."

"You're being very picky, considering how much you complain about watching over it."

"Can you blame me? I don't even understand how the mortals deal with those jobs—_everyday_, clocking in from dawn until dusk, to sit in a chair and occasionally get up to check an empty hallway, with absolutely nothing there besides a bunch of fossils, props, or paintings: There's nothing to do and it's even worse for the guards who have the night shift. At least in the Land of the Forgotten, my subjects have each other to suffer an eternity of nothing with."

She managed to stifle back her laughter. Though the humor was grim, his complete seriousness in the matter was amusing.

How had the Book of Life fallen under the protection of the rulers of the dead? That story had begun some years ago…

_The two hadn't known what to make of it when the Candle Maker had requested a meeting in the Cave of Souls. Since the events regarding their wager had ended, La Muerte and Xibalba had spent more time with one another than in the past millennium or so, but rarely did the three spirits who guarded the souls of humanity meet as a trio. Each had their duties to uphold first and foremost, and the Candle Maker had the most taxing of all—to watch over the lives and destinies of every living creature on Earth. _

_It had been noted that he was falling a little short on the second part. Due to this struggle, he had been given no choice but to request help. The news hadn't been taken as well as he would've hoped._

"_The book moves on its own accord!" Xibalba had snapped, gripping his staff in frustration sometime into the argument and having already refused to accept the task. He had his own problems to worry about, one of which included the startling population growth of the Land of the Forgotten. "Can't it just, you know, check itself?"_

"_It's a book! It doesn't work like that, man," The Candle Maker had retorted, "Look around you: Usually there's a plague or something to keep everything in balance, but I don't remember one moment since the dawn of time when there's been this many candles." It was true: The Cave of Souls was completely covered with them, perched high and low—some far too close to the waterfalls than they should be but with nowhere else to put them. "Every few seconds, a candle has to be made and another put out._ _At least I don't have to watch over the candles of trees and stuff like that as much anymore, but the humans are breeding like rabbits! "_

"_And dropping like flies," Xibalba finished, "Of that we're well aware!"_

_The same fate of the realms of the two had also befallen La Muerte's, though even she would admit it seemed that less and less of living kept a devotion to tradition and the memories of those now passed. Despite this, she offered, "I could keep it safe. It couldn't be too much trouble with me."_

_One look between Xibalba and the Candle Maker told how much of a bad idea that was. Not that La Muerte couldn't be trusted with the responsibility, but a place that redefined "party central" wasn't quite the ideal spot to protect a sacred relic that could change the fate of all mankind._

"_There's got to be some other option," Xibalba groaned, "It won't kill anyone if you're not watching the candles all of the time, right? Or if you just set aside the book for a bit? Put it on a shelf?"_

"_Seven _billion_ souls to keep track of, dude!" he exclaimed, "That's seven _billion_ stories on top of seven _billion_ candles! Besides that, I've got orders from up-top that say _somebody's _gotta take the job."_

_La Muerte couldn't keep it. The Candle Maker couldn't keep it. Xibalba's kingdom wasn't safe either, as any of his subjects would likely try to take it for themselves in order to change their fates._

_The only place it could be kept safe and secret was in the land of the living. No mortal knew of it and therefore none would look for it. So, finally, it had been agreed that La Muerte and Xibalba would share the duty of guarding the Book of Life there. With the trio's combined powers, they were able to make a rift in the realms—disguised by the museum and locked with a spell—to hide it in plain sight. _

_However, this was only a temporary solution. The Candle Maker had been right: Someone needed to look after the Book of Life. Someone who could be attentive to it at all times and be ready to act when destiny led astray—a Bookkeeper._

And so they searched among the mortals. Under the guise of a tour guide, La Muerte brought those she thought may be worthy of the task into the rift, and there they would be judged. Xibalba, ever pessimistic towards humanity and the evils the race was capable of, always reminded her to keep cautious of those she allowed entrance, knowing any wrong move could put the world in danger.

La Muerte was, in a sense, a bit picky herself in who she thought should watch after the book. It had to be someone of good heart and faith: Trusting, compassionate, honorable, devout, pure…

As she felt that of all of humanity, children were among the purest of souls, yet to be corrupted by the turmoils of man, she had shown a small group of youth the Book of Life. How their eyes had twinkled in wonder at the histories they were shown, their hearts overwhelmed with a passion for the story she had told them and the recognition of those in the tale as friends only separated by thin parchment.

But Xibalba had reminded her of another important factor that would determine who would watch the Book of Life: Sacrifice. "Whoever is chosen," he said, "Would have to give up everything they've ever known. Their lives, their families, their futures… Few would choose a duty they've never even envisioned over that—not unless they craved power."

"And it must be their choice," La Muerte finished sadly. It was likely that one of the children may have accepted the task, but could they truly understand the weight of the decision? She couldn't put them through that. They had so much life to live and so much time to decide their fates for themselves, and only they knew the people they would grow up to be. Even if it had been their decision, they're lack of understanding would only feel to her as if she had tricked them into a choice they never would've made otherwise.

"I pray it doesn't take that long, but we have an eternity to search, my love," Xibalba reassured her, wrapping an arm around her waist and allowing her to rest her head upon his shoulder as they walked. "Tomorrow, after all, is another chapter."


	2. Chapter 1

_((__**Review Replies:**_

_**Kitsunfanfics and Stella Shooting Star:**__ Thank you both so much for the kind words! I've a big fan of the movie and I'm glad to see people are enjoying what I've written so far, even though it's fan sequel. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story! (And can excuse me for the typos I often can make, haha!)_

_**Shadowridder221: **__Thank you for the compliment as well. Writing has always been a passion of mine, so I'm always glad to hear from readers. I'm sorry to say though that I already have the plot and characters decided for the story. Even though I won't be able to use that idea for what I have in mind, I hope you won't be disappointed in what I have planned: Expect danger, adventure, and much more in store for the characters in the future.)) _

For that night, the only buzz of life within the entire city only seemed to befall in—of all places—the graveyards: With children, with families, with spirits of loved ones journeying from beyond the realms to see those they had left behind just one more time before returning to the festivities in the Land of the Remembered. Candlelight flickered and danced to the crisp breeze. Marigolds, under the light of moonbeams and radiant stars, seemed to gossip of the sunset and whisper of the dawn—their colors conveying the ever-flowing pattern of night and day; of tales of old and of new beginnings. Their beauty, their scent—so familiar and adored by all—helped to mend the saddened hearts torn by recent loss. Sometimes a few petals might be caught upon the wind and soar above the people, and the lights of the candles and of the moon would cast them in a mystifying iridescence like the sparks of a warm fire. There couldn't have been a more perfect Dia de los Muertos.

And, with so much attention drawn to the merriment, there couldn't have been a more perfect time for a break in.

"You better know what you're doing," spat a young woman as she and her companion made their way up the vast, stone steps leading to the museum entrance.

"Having second thoughts?" the latter teased.

"No, but I'm not an idiot." She readjusted her grip on the large purse slung across her shoulder. "Just because there's less guards because of today doesn't mean we can't be caught on camera. I haven't wasted six years of my life for my research just for an arrest to destroy my record. You didn't even bring anything with you to hack into the system!"

"Don't have to," a smug grin was apparent in his voice, "This building might as well have come from the Stone Ages: They haven't had anything renovated since I was kid—that includes upgrading their security. So you let _me_ handle everything from here and don't you worry your pretty, little head. Seriously, have some faith in me, Fuega."

"If you weren't such a flunk, Lluvio, I might."

"Excuse me for living a little," he said before muttering under his breath, "Sheesh, you're cold…"

In fact, he debated this as likely to be the longest conversation anyone had ever had with the ice queen. Though at first glance she appeared as tranquil and alluring as a dove—amber eyes that melted every heart; hair as shiny as a new copper coin, layered at the ends, just past her shoulders; skin a light, soft bronze and lips of a dusty rose; a hourglass figure supported by a lithe frame—she was as vicious as a rattlesnake. Many an admirer had approached her, just for a chance to talk, and had been chased away with a glare of contempt and a sharp tongue.

He would never admit it, but even he fell under the curse of her beauty. But they were one another's foil placed in vastly different stories: They kept away from one another like a disease. So when she had approached him after class, asking for his help—which she never needed in all the years they had been on campus—he had accepted with embarrassing haste, nearly falling out of his desk in bewilderment. Oh, the looks he had gotten from his fellow students, from the others who had tried and failed to so much as make an acquaintance of this vixen… That would last above all other memories in his entire college experience.

Still, only matters of business concerned her, and it was only a matter of business that she spoke to him now. It wasn't like he was gaining much of anything from her company. He wasn't as dense as she thought though and knew that, after she had gotten want she wanted, that would draw the end of their association with one another. He needed to make this last: What would the other guys say when they pelted him with questions and he had nothing worth telling them about?

That was why—after he had recovered from the initial shock—he had struck a bargain.

As he dug through the pocket of his large, grey sweatshirt, pulling free one of a handful of metal picks he had brought along, he squatted before the door handle and prepared to get to work. Fuega stood beside him impatiently, her arms folded across her chest; occasionally, her gaze would flick over to the streets with worry, as if at any second a blur of blue and white would pull up before the steps, ending their quest before it even began.

He froze in place, the pick just barely touching the lock. Let her fret for a second or two: If she wanted to get in this badly, she would keep to the terms they had agreed to. Beaming up at her, he inquired, "We're still set for that second date, right? And it's my choice next time?"

She bristled, gruffly readjusted her glasses, and barked, "There is no _second_ date: Don't act as if there's even a _first_! This is a partnership, understand? You'll get your 'date'—if _you_ want to call it that—ok? But don't push it."

He shrugged, pleased with himself. "That's all I wanted to hear." With that, he got to work.

Nothing more was said for a little while. All that could be heard was the tapping of Fuega's foot upon the concrete and the tiny clicks of metal against metal as Lluvio fiddled with the lock. The wind whipped at her navy, cotton, cutaway blazer, sending the knee-length tail billowing like a ship's sail on a stormy sea. It was a little unnerving—that vision along with her intense stare as she waited for him to get them inside—and he did his best to ignore the feelings of undeniable intoxication mingled with danger that she wrung out of him.

He let out a relieved breath when she finally looked away and strode past him to something else of her interest. Normally, he would've be done by now, but his palms had begun to sweat and he just couldn't concentrate. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck under a stray of dark blonde locks, feeling the heat of a blush creeping up from his collarbone to his face. Fuega already saw him as a fool—he couldn't prove her right.

"What was that you were saying about renovations, Lluvio?" she sneered some ways to his right.

"What are you talking about?" he stopped in his work to peer in her direction. His mouth fell agape.

Their deal had been made only about a week ago, and he had prepared himself for their break in by visiting the museum a few days after that. Somehow he had missed the large opening in the brick wall, leading off into some part of the museum he had never known to have existed. It couldn't have been possible for the owners to add on to the building in such a short span of time, right? Yet here was the evidence, plain as day.

As he approached Fuega and the opening, it became a little clearer as to why he hadn't seen it before. The entrance was hidden by the guise of it merely being a solid wall. Only the shadows cast by the moonlight revealed otherwise. All the same, however, he had come to this museum many times in his youth. Surely as some point or another he would've spotted it. "Maybe it's a new exhibit or something, but…" he whispered, "This wasn't here. I swear."

"Uh-huh," she replied in a skeptic, flat tone, "Sure it wasn't." With that, she strode inside, not even paying him a second glance.

Lluvio had no choice but to abandon his endeavor or follow. He chose the latter.

As they took their first steps into through the opening, they were immeadiately swallowed by overwhelming darkness. Both paused in their stride for a moment to retrieve a pair of flashlights they had brought with them, but even with the combined lighting, it only illuminated the path within a range of just over a single meter—having wanted to limit the risk of being caught as much as possible, they made certain that whatever light source they brought would only give as bright a glow as necessary and no more.

They were surprised at the dingy, light taupe, barren walls and stone floor of a similar palette. They were surprised more as there was nothing—no door, no gate, no locks—to stop them from continuing onward. It seemed more like a back entry used by staff members, but why would there be such an obvious way for anyone to get in right on the front steps by the main entrance?

And the single, eerie hallway seemed to go on without end. Only a few closed doors and the even rarer sight of an organized pile of abandoned antiques broke the surreal, omnipresent constancy of it all. Lluvio turned his flashlight up above him: There wasn't one bulb to dot the surface of the arched ceiling.

No one else was around. At least they had that going for them.

They only stopped once, and that was to see if Lluvio could unlock one of the doors. He startled back, when the pick in hand snapped like a twig no sooner had he placed it in the keyhole. That never happened—ever. That's why he was known by other students as the best pick-lock around. He had honed the skill so much that he picks never broke.

As he stood there, baffled by the unrelenting lock, Fuega said, "Guess you're not as good as you think," and headed deeper into the hall. It took him a few seconds to realize he was being ditched before he ran after her.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to run far. The hall had finally reached its end, opening up into a vast chamber. The nonchalant, forever irritated expression that he was so used to seeing on Fuega was gone, replaced by astonishment. It didn't take long to see why.

The chamber—lit by candles left behind by whoever and some other unknown source of golden light that neither of them would never be able to discover in their lifetimes—was filled from wall to wall with relics of an ancient past. A large model of an Aztec temple, artfully crafted and painted to perfectly replicate the foundation of the all but lost society, reached high to the ceiling—its hues of vivid greens and reds and earthy browns seemed to shimmer in the light, speaking of a power never weathered by the ages. One wall of the chamber was completely covered with decorated skulls only seen around that time of year, but they were massive and it was difficult to discern whether they were made of rock or bone. Among the relics, a statue of some great hero atop a noble steed towered over them.

But the true jewel of it all was a large book that sat upon a dais of solid gold, with undefinable beasts unlike they had ever seen before except in texts carved from the valuable ore, and behind it a gorgeous mural depicting a tale of obscure origin.

"The Candle Maker…" Fuega whispered in awe, approaching the dais, but never setting foot onto it as if she was unworthy of such a thing. Lluvio followed her gaze to the figure at the top of the mural, cloaked in gold, with a beard of solid white, a charismatic smile, and his arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire world.

"La Muerte…" she continued, her voice growing softer as she dubbed two other beings on the wall, of opposite, but equal reverence, "Xibalba…" Lluvio didn't know—nor did he particularly care—who these people were, but then Fuega was the humanities major—not him. _He_ was the student who still wasn't entirely sure what to make of his future.

Well, maybe this trip wasn't an entire waste, even if Fuega saw her finding her way into the museum herself as a break in their bargain. At least he was learning something about her… like the fact that she had some other emotion beyond utter hatred for all things in life. And maybe…

He smiled, dashing past her to climb atop the dais until he was level with the book. "You're curious?" he shouted over his shoulder, his playful voice bouncing off the walls, "Come on: It won't kill anybody if we take a little peek."

Returning from her wonderment to reality, she gaped at him in furious horror. "Lluvio! That book is a sacred artifact that could be hundreds—maybe even thousands—of years old! Don't you dare so much as _touch_—!" He flipped it open, a hand running across the intricate leatherwork of the cover. "…And you touched it…"

"And the world's still in one piece. You really need to loosen up."

Within seconds, she stood by him, shoving him out of the way and rummaging through her bag to pull out a pair of plastic gloves a water bottle, and a few cotton balls. Donning on the gloves, she carefully went to work to fix whatever "damage" she felt his contact with the book had made, just barely dabbing the absorbent fiber with the water so not to ruin the leather. "We're surrounded by some of the most amazing artifacts of Mexican history—more than what you and I have probably ever seen in our lives," she grumbled, "Not to mention that they could be worth a good few centuries of research and hundreds of thousands of dollars… And you're first instinct is to touch them?"

"Sorry…" he muttered, scratching the back of his head. _And the ice queen is back. _Sure, maybe he should have thought it through a bit more about his fingerprints, but who was going to know anyway unless they knew to look? It wasn't as if he had left any marks.

"If you're going to stick around, make yourself useful." This time, she pulled a camera free from her bag, handing it to him with a look of antipathy. "Start documenting while I clean this up. And whatever you do, don't use the flash."

"Document what?"

"Everything!" she exclaimed with annoyance, as if the answer was obvious.

His shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes, but he inevitably stepped down from the dais and began taking pictures anyway, as commanded of him. "I thought you wanted to head towards the Mayan exhibit," he said as he zoomed in on some of the decorative skulls for better detail, "We can't stay here forever you, know."

"Oh please," she scoffed, "Not that I'm not worried about the guards, but how often do you think anyone gets an entire museum to themselves? I might as well make it last." She paused, sliding her glassed back up from where they began to slip, and turned to face him with a raised brow. "Actually, I'm surprised we haven't seen any guards by now."

"Not like that's anything to complain about," Lluvio shrugged.

Everything fell silent once more save for the clicks of the camera and Fuega's mutterings of what was this or that in a babble of excited chatter—like a kid in a candy store debating aloud with themselves over the variety of sweets spread before them. Such a baffling sight for such a battle-ax. He knew it was only asking for trouble, but he couldn't help sneaking a quick picture or two of her among the photos. Perhaps he could offer to develop the pictures for her and wipe the camera's memory of the ones he had made in secret later once he was finished. There had to be some evidence of his being in Fuega's company, and the only real risk was her yelling at him if he got caught: For him, the reward outweighed the danger.

Not long after, he heard the sound of voices and footsteps echoing from the hall—getting closer. "Guards are here," he whispered over the Fuega, diving back behind a pedestal bearing a large urn fashioned in bright colors and complex patterns, and on the front of it seemed to be the face of a man. Ever alert, Fuega lunged from the dais to duck low behind the statue of the heroic rider.

"…Gives me the creeps," sounded one voice as the silhouettes of two men came within sight. "You didn't feel that chill? And I still think I heard something behind one of those doors—"

"_I _didn't hear anything. It's your first time: Of course you're bound to hear things—"

"No, I mean it! There's something wrong here. I gotta sense for those things."

"You're just paranoid. And look: There's a light up ahead."

Fuega and Lluvio shrank farther into the shadows of their hiding places—neither of them in the best of locations, but then they hadn't had much time and there weren't many good places to hide in the vast chamber. And these newcomers blocked their sole escape route.

The two who entered were both of rough stature. The first to have spoken was a bit of a short fellow, with beady, hazel eyes that flickered about constantly behind mangy, dark bangs; his form was hunched forward in an unnatural way, his walk almost like a duck's waddle; all the while he twiddled his fingers or rubbed his hands together in a nervous way.

The second man very nearly doubled his associate's height, clad in dark clothing, with a large, worn belt around his waist; his eyes were hard as stone and his rigid jaw bore two rows of yellowed, cracked teeth; most of the rest of his face was covered with a shabby, brown beard.

Though he continued to wring his hands, the former's eyes went wide with avarice and he whistled, "Would you look at all of this? Just one piece of this junk could set a man for rest of his days."

On the other side, Lluvio could see Fuega glower with uttermost disdain at the comment. He hoped she wouldn't do anything stupid, but then again, he was one to talk: Peering from the safe cover of the pedestal as much as he dared, he focused the camera on the two crooks and took as many pictures as he could. If they made it out in one piece, they could explain to the police what had happened—sound the alarm and have these criminals behind bars in no time.

The tricky part would be coming up with a good explanation as to just why they were at the museum after hours as well.

"What are you doing?" the first man questioned the second as the latter made his way up the dais and reached out for the book, "Why take that? It's too big to carry much else and any of these things are bound to be worth more than some dusty, old book."

The other smiled wickedly, "Just goes to show that you don't know what I do." He hefted the book off of the pedestal—the lights from above suddenly faded, startling all, though it was soon cast aside as merely a power shortage and coincidence—and muttered something about it being lighter than expected even as he backed away to bear the sheer size of the text. "Some buyers would pay an arm and a leg to add something like this to their collections. Don't ask me why: Those rich types always have more money than sense. History's dead for a reason: There ain't no point in looking back except to brew more of the same trouble they had in the past. No one's ever gonna learn from any of it. 'Keep your eyes on the present', I say."

Lluvio's heart leapt to his throat as the short thief approached his position; filthy, grubby hands reaching out for smaller relics that decorated a long table not far from him. He shimmied a few inches away, but found himself in an equally poor situation as the larger brute stepped down from the dais, the book in tow.

_WAM! _The loud sound of rock hitting the floor and a scream of mingled surprise and pain rattled the air. Worried, Lluvio poked his head from around the pedestal to see the hero's statue had collapsed—one front leg of his steed's broken off by the impact—with the large man crushed beneath its mass and the book scattered a few feet away. And there stood Fuega, heaving from exertion and an apologetic, pained look of her own cast down to the ruined sculpture at her feet.

"What—?!" the short fellow cried out, eyes wide with panic. He reached for something at his side as he demanded, "Who are you?!"

Everything seemed to slow down after that. Fuega diving for the book; the gun leveled at her chest; Lluvio darting from his hiding spot to force the man's arm to the ceiling. His ears rang from the shot and dust rained down from the ceiling—setting on his shoulders—from the misfire.

Another gunshot, but not from the short man this time: No, it was his partner who fired this round. Lluvio's eyes snapped to Fuega, both hands clenched to her chest and blood seeping between her delicate fingers. Amber eyes burned with agony—the glasses slid off of her face to crash at her feet. Her mouth hung open, but nothing came out. He screamed for her, watching as her body collapsed lifelessly to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

Gone. Gone in an instant. A fiery heart snuffed out by the cold grip of death.

And then his word went black.


	3. Chapter 2

_((__**Review Replies:**_

_**Stella Shootingstar:**__ Since the plot is taking place in the present, we won't hear/see much of the San Angel trio or characters of the past. However, since what occurs will tie so much to all that had happened because of the wager, don't expect them to be entirely left out either, even if there are just glimpses. After this story is finished though, I may write another focusing on Manolo, Maria, and Joaquin._

_**Kitsunfanfics:**__ To quote the kids, "What is it with Mexicans and death?!" (… Not that I know whether or not I have any Hispanic origin, but it fits.) Don't worry: As we learned with Manolo's adventure, things are not always as they appear. As the story continues, you'll be able to learn more about Fuega and Lluvio, but I can tell you a few things about them now without spoiling anything. No, they aren't representing Xibalba and La Muerte: They are their own people._

_Fuega is a stern, serious young woman, particularly to her studies. She likes getting things done and getting them done right and typically avoids anything that she would consider a waste of her time, which includes interactions with other people. Meanwhile, Lluvio is very carefree, laid-back, and full of life: He loves to have fun and sometimes likes getting into mischief as long as nobody gets hurt. His folly, however, is that he doesn't really have a path for himself—he doesn't have any idea what sort future he wants, making him someone who only tries as hard as he must to get by._

_Since I feel that I should say this: No, they haven't really spoken two words to each other before—they're not friends in any way, shape, or form. As mentioned, Fuega has a habit of being very shewed and standoffish towards others. However, despite this, she's such a pretty face and such a challenge, she's pursued by guys who are all kind of betting with each other on who's going to win her over and figure out how she ticks. Unlike the other guys though, Lluvio feels it's a lost cause to try with her—which it is—and just watches the chaos from a distance. Yet at the same time, it doesn't stop him from wanting her attention any less._

_Concept art of the two will be posted on my DeviantArt account once the story is complete._

_**Shaddowridder221:**__ Thank you for your understanding._

_**NightFlowerLuv:**__ Always greet to hear from another reader! Hope you enjoy!))_

He had forgotten to seal the portal of the rift on his way out. It had taken about an hour or so into their stroll to remember that important fact, and mere seconds to teleport back once realization hit.

They materialized before the entrance: One as a burst of bright petals and flickering candlelight and the other a swift blur of a black darker than bleakest shadow and an electrifying green. A scowl lingered on the painted lips of the former and though she remained silent, her entire demeanor hinted at a scolding that had yet to be made.

"I said I was sorry!" Xibalba practically whined in an almost childish manner, his wings slumping in sync with his shoulders.

Instead of responding to the outburst, La Muerte simply shook her head in a way only that a woman could after many, _many_ years of marriage in a not-so-perfect fairytale. She loved him, she really did, but like many married men he was prone to forgetting some of the simplest of things. "I'm going to check on the book," she said with a sigh and a soft grin. Her hips swayed as she spun around and entered the passage, the candles on her sombrero and the tail of her dress illuminating the way.

"It's fine; I'm sure," he exclaimed with a wave of his hand. In all honesty though, he was just as concerned—if not more so. If something happened to the Book of Life, it would be his fault. He doubted any mortal would know how to use it, but he equally doubted they would understand the power they dwelled in by bearing it or the dangers one mistake could lead to.

They were—overall—stupid creatures. Not to say that there weren't some good ones, but the ideals of fine morals and good breeding had clearly flown out the window within the past couple centuries, along with intelligence.

Many mortals were with their families tonight, honoring those now passed with their memories, so there shouldn't have been anyone to steal the book as it was, especially not within the hour. Everything was fine: Surely, everything was fine.

He hoped everything was fine.

"I'll only be minute," his beloved replied with a brief glance back in his direction. With that said, she disappeared into the passage. He watched her until even the flickering flames of her candles went faint. A part of him told him to follow and another told him to stay put and wait: The latter won out.

The night sky was peaceful: Not a single cloud blanketed over the shimmering jewel that was the moon, as pale and as radiant as a pearl; the stars shone brightly against their dark-blue canvas, winking in delight over the attention they received rather than the artificial glows of streetlamps and neon signs; the usual buzzing bustle of the city was little more than a dull hum in which the streets remained silent, with only the occasional car passing by to interrupt the brilliant stillness of it all.

The wind softly whipped at his form, causing the green flames at his shoulders and on his crown to waver. He could feel it, but he didn't feel the cold, startling chill of it as a mortal would have—the gelid feeling that seeped through the flesh and into ones blood.

Yet as a deity of death he did feel… something. Something was off—he knew that: he just couldn't place a finger on what. Nothing uncommon, nothing too terrible… just off.

Maybe it was just the fleeting feeling of terrified guilt towards having left the portal to the rift open, or maybe it was the paranoia of the very chance—however small—that something actually did happen to the Book of Life in the short time they had been away. He dwelled upon it for a moment, but discovered it as neither. No, this seemed to have a sort of begrudging familiarity that those who had grown accustomed to it would merely shrug at its sad inevitability—despairing, but ultimately unchangeable.

At some time or another in the very distant past, the feeling may have chilled his heart, but now it was so natural a thing—so much a part of him—that he could hardly recognize it.

He pondered and pondered over what could be wrong, and as he pondered—and despite his denials—he only worried more.

Xibalba waited a full five, ten, fifteen minutes and still La Muerte did not return. He supposed it was better than her rushing out in a flurry of panic and accusations, but what was taking her so long? _She's probably lost in that book,_ he consoled himself. She practically knew every story of every being that had ever lived all by heart—had even taken a part in a few of them, such as in the tale she had told the delinquents earlier that day—but it didn't stop her from looking back. Were his wife not already the ruler of The Land of the Remembered, she would've made a superb Bookkeeper.

"_If you love it so much, my dear, I could watch after _both _of our lands while you care for the book,"_ he had teased her one afternoon, after finding her in her Mary Beth form—he himself had still been hidden by his security guard semblance—cheerfully humming to herself and running her fingers over the pages with a tender touch. The merry sound had immeadiately stopped and the look of contempt she had fired his way had nearly sent him doubling over in a fit of laughter. _Nearly._

Twenty minutes passed: It didn't take that long to get to the chamber and back. Even _if_, by some chance of fate, anyone had snuck into the rift, she could easily snap her fingers and teleport them anywhere on the face of the earth within seconds. Problem solved: No harm done.

Thirty minutes passed—a full half hour. The winds picked up and seemed to guide him toward the passage. He relented to its will, trusting its judgment more than the one that kept his feet plastered to the ground.

The eerie hall, in which he sought potential in every dark crevice and every shadow in attempts to frighten the life— not literally, of course... at least not anymore—out of the mortals La Muerte brought to the chamber, could never terrify him. The darkness, being nothing compared to the gloom of his own lands, meant little. As the ruler to The Land of the Forgotten, he believed himself incapable of fear: _He_ was being that mankind bartered their very souls with when facing _their_ fears, no matter how foolish the pursuit. Fear was as foreign to him as the light of the sun would be in his kingdom.

Fear was foreign… unless the woman he loved managed to somehow inculcate the distressing sensation within him. Just as she did now: standing in the perplexingly tenebrous chamber with her back turned from the passage and from him, as still as a tombstone, one hand covering her mouth and the other dangling limply at her side. "_Mi amor_?" he asked with grave concern, "What's wrong?"

He knew it—had known it even before he stood by her side, stared down at the fallen figures before them, and held his lover in his arms to shield her own gaze from the sight. Right: As if that would erase from her mind was had already been witnessed. The feeling had been unmistakable.

Even the simplest of creatures knew when the sting of death hung in the air. The feeling was even more prominent under the cruel circumstances of which the two youth's deaths had been dealt.

Death was a natural process: Murder was not.

As sovereigns to the dead, they had seen it all: Death from sickness, death in childbirth, death at the hands of another… The list despondently dragged on. Centuries prior, Xibalba had reaped a few souls from the living himself.

But for La Muerte, whatever the reason for someone to find themselves in The Land of the Remembered mattered nothing: Forevermore, they were safe, happy, and free—of pain, of misery, of despair. The cause of death was always a topic she seemed intent to avoid. She saw so much value in all life…

For someone to take it away without due reason, just because they had the power to do so, was as unthinkable as it was heartbreaking.

Murderers and their like often found themselves in The Land of the Forgotten: Xibalba took a particular, sadistic delight in watching them crumble to dust. And he was used to seeing men and women alike befall a premature end.

La Muerte, however, was not.

She slipped from his hold, steeling herself to look back at the bodies, silent tears streaking down her cheeks, twinkling from the wet reflection of pure sugar caught in her golden eyes. La Muerte fell on her knees before the forms, and Xibalba followed suit—not so much in respect to the fallen, but for his wife's sake—wrapping an arm consolingly around her shoulders. She reached out with both hands, to prod at the fatal wounds in disbelief.

"Both of them…" she whispered sorrowfully, "Right through the heart…" Her hands came away bloody. Cupping them before her, she could only stare at them in numb shock and began to tremble.

Xibalba hugged her tightly, whispering words of comfort in her ear. "You know as well as I where they are, my love," he said, "Someone will remember them."

She nodded, "No one is ever truly forgotten…" But then she turned her face away, burying it into his chest mournfully.

With one arm wrapped around her slim frame, he ran his fingers through her raven locks. She was so compassionate—one of the many reasons he loved her so. Meanwhile, one thing continued to intrude his thoughts.

What were they doing here? And what had happened? If they were thieves, they were poor ones at that, bearing no form of weaponry or means to carry off anything of real value—the girl only had her purse and he hadn't seen a single vehicle in or near the museum parking lot. Nor did their dispositions appear of that sort. And unless they were truly delusional, he had yet to hear of anyone killing themselves in such a place as this—definitely not in pairs.

No, they had been murdered; of that he was certain. A fight between thieves then? Perhaps of the division of the wealth? It still didn't seem to fit, for those so violent as to kill their own partners were usually at least smart enough to know how to properly dispose of a body. _Someone panicked,_ he figured. But who?

His eyes drifted away from the pale bodies to the survey the rest of the chamber. The statue of Joaquin's father had been turned over, damaged from whatever the events that had transpired. _Idiots,_ he thought to himself. If they had been thieves, they could've at least shown respect for what they intended to steal. Then his gaze drifted up towards the dais, and the world seemed to come to an immediate halt.

The Book of Life was gone.

When La Muerte's stare followed his own, she gasped and her eyes went wide in alarm.

"We have to hurry, but there's still time," he reminded her. Helping her to her feet, he continued, "And at least we have a lead." He gestured to the two bodies at their feet, then winced inwardly when it only seemed to spark another jab of pain within her. "You set up… welcoming committees of sorts to help new arrivals adjust, right? We may not have the book, but their names should've been recorded at the moment of their deaths so they could be found. If we find them, we can find out what happened to the book."

In an instant, she went from a woman in mourning to the strong and mystifying creature he adored. Her eyes hardened with determination, and she gave him a reassuring smile. She stood a little straighter, wiping the tears from her face. He grinned: They would get through this as they always had when their and mortal affairs crossed—they had to.

* * *

><p>Five minutes. He had been screaming for <em>five minutes<em> straight. If he weren't so annoying, she might've been impressed.

"Wake up and smell the poison, Lluvio," she snapped, resting her chin against her hand, "We're dead." They were skeletons—literally nothing but bone—but somehow the moron couldn't seem to grasp the reality of it.

Instead, he continued to panic, breathing heavily with a look of utter horror spread across his features, or rather what remained of them. Pink flesh, soft lips, and light eyebrows were replaced by bright paint: Twin, golden lines along the sides of his face that made a single wave in the center before curling inwardly at the ends, a miniscule dot of a blue heart just above where the ridge of his nose should've been and a diamond only a tad larger than that on his chin, black eyebrows made to match his old ones. There also seemed to be designs running along his neck and down his shoulders, but she didn't care to study them further.

Fuega herself bore little design, and quite honestly she preferred it that way. Like Lluvio, her eyebrows had also been replaced with black paint. Her eyelashes had also been drawn in as well—the top ones sweeping to the side and the bottom ones designed as three small, vertical lines ending where the ridge of her "nose" began. On each cheek, three overlapping, vermillion petals, made to resemble an open fan, had been painted.

The only other similarity the two shared were a set of yellow pupils, the latter's tinged a faintly darker hue around the rim. While Fuega no longer had her glasses, their clothing had also remained the same as well as their hair. There was also no sign of the wounds—as if the bullets had never torn through their rib cages and plunged into their hearts and that it had all been some sort of dream.

"Exactly! We're dead! So how can you be so calm about this?!" Lluvio screamed at her, glaring at her furiously. "_Why_?! Why did you have to get us both killed?! If you had just stayed hidden, we wouldn't be in this mess—"

"Don't you _dare_ blame me for this!" she barked, pushing herself up from the fallen tree trunk she had been sitting on. They were somewhere along the outskirts of a large, glistening city full of ebullient color and light. Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of cheers and energetic music could be heard, but to the pair they might as well have been in a solitary, frozen tundra for all they cared. "Excuse me for not wanting some thugs run off with some of the most valuable relics in history! How exactly was I supposed to know that they had guns?! And more than that, no one ever said that I was _your_ responsibility! _You_ could've stayed put!"

"We could've gotten help!"

"Oh, like cops have done _so well_ at their jobs so far!"

"You didn't exactly manage to stop them either! If you had, we wouldn't be here… wherever _here_ is! Would we?!"

She rolled her eyes in an infuriating manner, clenching her fists at her sides and spinning around on one heel. "Forget it!" she yelled back behind her, "How can I expect some lame-brain like you to understand?!"

His heart sank… if he still had one. He hadn't wanted to chase her off—he was just scared and angry. And he didn't want to be alone in this strange place, no matter how beautiful it was or how unpleasant the company. "Wait! Where do you think you're going?!"

At that moment, another skeletal being approached them—two beings actually. A man, riding a horse of bone, dashed over the rolling landscape to their location. Even in death, he seemed cheerful—friendly even. When he was little more than a few meters away from where they stood, he beamed at them and exclaimed, "Welcome to The Land of the Remembered!" before tugging free a clipboard from a pouch at the steed's hip. "Now, before I show you two around, I'll just need your names—"

"Where do you _think_ I'm going?" Fuega shouted, "Anywhere away from you is fine by me!" The man's presence was ignored by the pair as they continued to argue. Discomfort was written plainly on his face, for most of the newcomer's he had greeted were merely stunned by what surrounded them, and not long after, they were ecstatic.

He really didn't know how to handle the situation if this was some sort of lover's quarrel. "Excuse me," he said, "Um, I can't help but notice that neither of you seem like you're from around here. If I can just get your names so I can see if you're on my list, I could show you around or maybe help you find your families. Boy, you two came on a good night! It's the Day of the Dead after all and—"

They walked right past him. "Are you kidding me?" Lluvio exclaimed, "Do you even _know_ where you're going?"

"Um… Sir? Miss?"

"At least I know where we are and I'm not flipping out like a spaz!"

Wait.

She knew where they were?

Lluvio's mind began to race. Of course! She was a humanities major: She lived and breathed all of the cultures and religions of the world, which meant she had to know about afterlife! Those beings on the mural that they had seen… Were they somehow connected? He didn't have a clue about how any of this worked, but maybe—just maybe—he could ask them for help and get his life back! It was the delusion of a dreamer, he knew, but it was all he had.

The only person he knew who could help him understand any of this was furious with him and striding out of sight.

"Fuega, wait!" he raced forward, blocking her from continuing any further, "You know this place! That means you probably know who runs it. We were killed: we weren't meant to die—not yet, so maybe they'll give us another chance. We can find them—"

"Find them yourself," she chuffed, pushing him out of her way as she entered the busy streets of the city. "Don't you get it? We _died_: No replays, no restarts. I'm not about to test the laws of nature or invoke the wrath of some godhead by asking for one."

Stubborn, cold-hearted, ice queen. There had to be something—

Lluvio smiled devilishly. He shrugged his shoulders and continued to follow her at a much calmer, more casual stride, his hand stuffed in his hoodie. "Well then," he smirked once his pace matched hers. She didn't look at him and kept staring onward. "I guess that means it's just you and me, Fuega. Together.

"For all eternity."

She froze in place, eyes wide with realization. Lluvio stopped when she stopped. Lluvio walked when she walked.

"Let's just get this over with. I have a test next Tuesday anyway."

* * *

><p>The man watched them depart, uncertain whether or not he should follow. He hadn't gotten their names, but that had seemed to be one mess that he hadn't wanted to get involved in in the least. He wondered for a moment whether or not this was one of those "special cases" he had heard some of the others who shared his task had had. There were always those few in denial. He supposed it partly came with dying young. Well, the place would grow on them eventually.<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

_((__**Review Replies:**_

_**Azaiya:**__ Thanks for the reviews! Sorry I didn't answer your last one. _

_No need to worry about who took the book, all will be revealed in due time.)) _

He had visited a good many cities in his young life, but all of them failed to compare to the city his saw in death.

Resplendent shafts of light streamed down from what could only be described as a meadow above—trails of colossal petals of a range of reds and pinks and purples lazily contorted in flowing patterns in the midnight blue sky. Sometimes, he could follow a trail of the flowers and greenery to find them scaling the walls of buildings in order to stretch to the heavens.

And, oh! The buildings themselves—a magnificent, polychromatic array of brightly lit windows and dazzling murals! The architecture varied from ancient Aztec temples to refined Pre-Romanesque towers and everything in between—a few faintly touched by the more modern-day styles, but no more. A good number of them were fabricated in the shape of skulls. Below them, level, after level, after level of the artfully constructed buildings continued deeper into the abyss of nothingness the city seemed to float upon. At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him—stairwells and pathways, defying the laws of physics, moved from one place to the next along the main streets.

Papel picado draped from corner to corner along every rooftop. Some areas were roped off as people made ornate tapetes with bright colored sand; only instead of honoring the dead, they seemed to reminisce of those they behind in death.

Festive music swelled at every street corner, and every street was packed from one side to the next with people. On an odd occasion, they might see a sudden flash of light and a blur of color as some soul arrived from the Land of the Living. If such occurred, the new arrival would usually look about, disoriented for a moment, as the crowd went about their business like nothing happened—or maybe a small number of denizens would cheer for the newcomer until the jubilation rippled contagiously throughout the majority.

Lluvio whistled in amazement, his eyes constantly shifting about to take it all in. Just the sight of it all was making him feel a little disoriented himself. "How do you know we're going the right way?" he asked, not for the first time.

Something along the lines of _figure it out yourself_ or_ it's not rocket science_ had been Fuega's usual response. However, this time she made a mild groan of annoyance, tugged him by the arm, and pulled him close to the edge of the street. Before he could question anything further, a skull-shaped hot air balloon—one of many that dotted the sky—began to float up toward their position, conveniently free of passengers. Once it was level with them, she hopped in, pulling Lluvio behind her.

As he closed the door to the basket behind him and they drifted up into the air, he asked, "How did you know about the balloon?"

"I saw it coming," she replied with a flat tone, "Unlike you, _I _pay attention." She looked around their small space for a means to control it. There being none, she sighed ad turned away as if to ponder their next course of action.

Had he been able to, he could've flushed with embarrassment. Maybe it was better if he just stopped talking.

"There," Fuega exclaimed, pointing a bony finger out toward the distance. The balloon suddenly lurched in that direction, jarring both riders. They latched onto the sides of the basket until it began to glide smoothly through the air once again. The pair shared a sudden look of enlightenment: Well, at least now they knew how to fly it. Righting herself once more, Fuega strode over to the other side and gave a gentle nod, "Look down below: Everyone's heading the same way—towards that parade. Beyond that, there's some sort of castle. If it wasn't already too late, I'd bet my life that that's where we'll find La Muerte."

"La what?"

"How did you even make it into college?" She placed two fingers against where her temple would be. "La Muerte is one of two rulers of the dead; the other is Xibalba. La Muerte rules the Land of the Remembered—where we are now—and Xibalba, The Land of the Forgotten."

"Do you really think she'll help us?" Lluvio looked further down their intended path, eying the massive, vibrant palace and its large heart-shaped doors.

"Honestly, no," she shrugged, "She'll probably tell you the same thing I did—to get over it and face the facts. Not that it matters: We won't be asking her for help anyway."

He raised a brow, his gaze flitting her way. "And now you've lost me."

"Xibalba isn't just the ruler of The Land of the Forgotten," she explained, "He's La Muerte's husband. It'll be easier to look for La Muerte than it would be to find The Land of the Forgotten and _then_ search for Xibalba."

If he recalled correctly, Xibalba had also been the dark, ominous figure painted on the mural in the museum. The deity hadn't quite looked like the friendly sort. "What makes you think he'll help us then, if not even La Muerte will?"

"Well, it might be a long shot," she shrugged, "And it's not like I don't have, oh, _six years_ of research to back me up or anything, but everything I've studied tells stories of Xibalba being a gambler of sorts. Legends say there were some people who made deals with him in the past—wagering their souls against him. If they won, he'd always fulfill his end of the bargain. If they lost, he'd take their spirits to The Land of the Forgotten, where they would suffer for all eternity until they were nothing more than dust on the wind."

He gulped. Why was it that everything he did that night felt like he was digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole? He couldn't help but ask, "Just so I've got an idea about our odds… How often did they lose, exactly?"

"_Our_ odds?" she nearly laughed, "The last I checked, this was _your_ idea. Once we find Xibalba, you're basically on your own. Don't act like I don't care; I'm just not stupid enough to put my every hope on a bet."

"Can you at least guess at the statistics?"

"Fine then… At best, I'd say the odds are anywhere between complete annihilation and inevitable failure." When she next glanced at him, she must've seen something deserving of callous amusement, for she smirked and said sweetly, "Strange. For a skull, you're looking a little green right now, Lluvio. Are you sure you're up for this?"

In truth, he felt sick to his nonexistent stomach. That smile of hers though—that wicked smile—only strengthened his resolve. With what was at stake, how could he tuck his tail in at the mere mention of a little danger? And for all he knew, she may have only been trying to scare him into changing his mind. So he shook his head, "Don't count me off just yet. I don't give up that easy."

Her lips morphed back into their usual frown. It was then that she turned away, her attention back on the busy streets below.

On any other day, in any other situation, he would've found himself fortunate to be trapped in an enclosed space, alone with a pretty girl. Following fantasy, maybe they would've awoken from this mess, laughed at the insane hilarity of it all in one another's embrace, and shared a tender kiss as they soared into the sunset. But the cruel, ironic reality only bore them begrudged silence and awkward tension.

* * *

><p>There were only so many places a person could go down here. Where were they?<p>

Nearly 150,000 people died each day across the world, so there were a number of volunteers who organized the new arrivals. At the moment of death, their names were sent in by the Candle Maker and their location in The Land of the Remembered instantaneously logged—not that it was too difficult for the volunteers to find them anyway; just look person caught in a stupefied daze.

But the only volunteer that had reported back saying he had spotted a young man and woman following the description that had been given had lost them. They had sent out an alert, but only on a need to know basis; with the book missing, they could have a widespread panic on their hands.

La Muerte paced back and forth in the large dining hall. An exorbitant amount of food was spread across the smooth surfaces of the many tables: fruit, churros, pan de muerto, tortillas, pitchers of champurrado, and much more covered the tabletops from end to end.

Usually the hall—or more so the entire palace—would also be filled with coming and going denizens eager for the chance to greet their warm and loving queen during the celebrations. That night, however, the castle was bizarrely silent—almost to an unbearable extent. If it weren't for the parade and festivities outside distracting her subjects, they might've displayed more concern for the sealed doors and quiet.

Xibalba was on edge enough; his wife's pacing wasn't helping. The fact that this turn of events had broken through even her cool and collected demeanor only made matters worse. "Please sit down, my dear; stressing over what we can't help won't do you any good or make the volunteers find them any faster." He then turned to his goblet sitting on the table, lifted to his mouth, and mumbled behind the glass, "And it isn't good for my health either..."

She shot him a look of agitation, but not long after summoned a chair over from the main dining table, sinking into it with her head in her hand. "The Candle Maker won't be pleased."

"What he doesn't know won't kill him," he replied in attempts to make light of the situation, "It may kill a few mortals, but…"

"It already did," she reminded him, to which he laughed nervously.

The sudden knock on the dining hall doors and the appearance of a servant's skull poking in from behind them came as a double blessing: Breaking the uncomfortable stillness and stirring a bit of hope when he said, "My lady, we found them. Or rather… they found us."

Both immortals raised a brow to this, but before the question could leave either of their lips, they heard a shout of indignation. "What do you mean I have to come along?! _He's_ the one who wants to talk to them! …No, I don't need to be escorted into the other room!"

"Fuega, calm down…"

"You're one to talk!"

Not long after, the doors parted and a trio of figures entered—one of which resentfully lagged behind the others with an ill-tempered sneer. The leader of the trio—another servant—gave a soft, clumsy smile and motioned the other two in further before taking his leave with noticeable relief. The boy looked about in amazement to what surrounded him before spotting the pair of deities to which his jaw went slack and his feet froze in place. The girl continued to grimace, but the gleam in her eyes—flitting about as if to take in every detail—revealed her doing so more for stubbornness's sake. When she looked upon La Muerte and Xibalba, her brows lifted in admiration, but lacked the same wonder as in her companion. It was a knowledgeable sort of reverence, and with it her anger seemed to ebb away.

Both La Muerte and Xibalba rose to their full height, and the two mortals seemed to shrink back under their towering height and observing gaze. The girl's reaction was instantaneous; her eyes flickered to the floor and she dipped her head low, hands clasped together to her chest. The boy's stare lingered a little longer before noticing this and bowing similarly. La Muerte grinned reassuringly, gliding toward them, "No need for that," she said in her motherly tone, "Don't be afraid."

"I think they should have every reason to be afraid," Xibalba said as he strode forward before the pair could raise their heads. He looked at them cynically, his arms behind his back, "Let's skip the formalities. What were you two doing, breaking into the museum—or more importantly, what happened to the book?"

"You know about that?" the boy asked, visibly cringing.

"It was hard not the notice the corpses." La Muerte opened her mouth to rebuke her husband, but didn't get the chance. "Answer the question."

"We weren't there to hurt anything." He retreated back another step, gesturing to the girl. "The socialite over here wanted to go to the museum after hours. That way, she could study anything she wanted to alone."

"Is that so?" Xibalba turned skeptically to Fuega next.

"I hate crowds, ok?" she said defensively before sending the boy a look of venom, "You try studying in peace with a few hundred people running around like they don't have an ounce of sense! And most of the kids!" she scoffed, "You would've thought they were in a playground!"

His wings bristled dangerously, flaring out a bit in aggression. "Do you honestly think either of us would believe—!"

La Muerte placed a firm hand on Xibalba's shoulder before the interrogation could continue. Turning to the mortals, she said, "We're not accusing either of you of anything; we're just as confused as you two probably are about all of this." Despite her kind smile, she couldn't hide the graveness in her tone. "I don't know why either of you came here, but we've actually been hoping to find you both."

"Actually miss," the boy addressed, "We were hoping you could help us. I'm Lluvio and this is Fuega; we're just college students." At the mention of 'we,' Fuega shifted away pointingly, distancing herself from the conversation as if in attempts to make herself of no relation. "I know we're asking a lot, but… but this," he motioned at themselves, "can't be happening yet! Is there any way to get our lives back?"

La Muerte gave him a sad, sympathetic look, but before she could speak, Xibalba interrupted in outrage, "You break into a museum, you come here before my wife and I, and the first thing you do is ask to be brought back to life?!"

"I tried to tell him that…" Fuega grumbled softly, before spinning around to exit the room, "Well, I'm only here because of him, so I think I'll just go—" With a wave of Xibalba's hand, the doors shut before her with a loud slam. Her brows lifted in fright, but she otherwise remained impassive.

Lluvio, however, stiffened at the boom that echoed through the dining hall. Despite his fears, he forced himself to look the imposing immortal in the eyes. "Please, there has to be some way. You're Xibalba, right? Ruler of the Land of the Forgotten."

La Muerte tried to step in to stop the conversation from going any further, but Xibalba quickly stepped forward and leaned threateningly toward Lluvio. "Your point?"

Lluvio's eyes gaze briefly fell upon Fuega, before swiftly returning to the lord of death. "People say that you sometimes make bets with mortals, and that if they win, you have to fulfill your end of the deal." He took a deep breath; he was terrified. "Name your game—anything—and I'll bet my life over it. I _have_ to get back to The Land of the Living."

"You and half of the underworld," Xibalba snorted, "You don't have anything to offer and I don't have to make any sort of deal with you. But back to the point, what happened to the book?"

"It was stolen." Fuega voiced, a bit of bitterness in her tone at the memory of the event. She raised a curious brow, "I know I'm going to hate myself for saying this, but it's just an artifact. No one should have even touched it, but if it was so important, it wouldn't have been in a _public_ museum, right? So what's wrong if it's not a danger to anyone?"

"That wasn't just any book," Xibalba snapped, "It was The Book of Life, which contains every story of everything that lives and has lived in the world—including yours. And now it's gone!"

"It wasn't our fault," Lluvio exclaimed, "You have to know that!"

"We know," La Muerte stated in attempts to calm everyone down. She looked back and forth between the two mortals with a pacifying gaze, "But you were there, which is why we need your help. Whoever took your lives apparently took the book as well. We're not counting on you to know everything, but you can at least give us some description to go by to find those thieves."

Desperate as he was, the words left Lluvio's mouth before he even knew what he was proposing. But if what they knew was this important… "How about a trade then?"

"What?!" Xibalba barked, his wings extending fully with rush of air and his eyes burning like fire. La Muerte seemed taken aback, her expression turning into one of somber surprise; under that look, he felt ashamed, but what else could he do?

From off to the side, Fuega stared at him inscrutably, but behind her eyes was a pallid, scorning acidity. _Idiot!_ She seemed to silently scream,_ You idiot!_

She was probably right. He felt like one anyway. Still, he continued, "We died trying to protect that thing. If you give us our lives back, we'll tell you everything you want to know—we'll even help you find the book. Otherwise, you can forget about our help."

Xibalba's gaze turned murderous. His hands balled into fists as he spoke through clenched teeth, "I can think of a good many ways to make you talk—"

"We accept," La Muerte interjected, her face as hard as stone. Her husband was stunned by this absurdity, but before he could say a word against it, she explained, "We're not torturing them and it's only fair to give them a chance." Without another look their way, she moved with all seriousness toward the doors, swiping her hands in the air to open them before her. "We have to act fast. I'll speak with the Candle Maker. Xibalba, you take them back to the rift and look for any clues—and don't you even think about hurting them."

As he watched her leave, dumbfounded, he exclaimed, "Wait! You're leaving them with _me_?"

"You left the portal open," she reminded him, flashing a coy grin over her shoulder, "I'll be back. I promise."

Fuega, dumbstruck into silence, stood still for a moment before trying to make her exit once more. However, a cold hand with elongated fingers closed around her arm before she could.

"Oh no, you don't! You two are a _package_ deal!"


	5. Chapter 4

_((__**Review Replies:**_

_**Azaisya:**__ I like to think of Fuega as a sort of Marian Paroo from the "Music Man." I can't tell you how often I've listened to the song, "Marian the Librarian" as I've worked on her concept art and have been writing this story. XD)) _

There was a sudden flash of light and then the next thing she knew, she was overwhelmed by a straggled rack of coughs. A hand flew over her chest as she tried to breath, her eyes tightly sealed shut. She rolled over onto her knees, tasting blood and phlegm as she coughed it out on the floor before her. Not far from her, she heard Lluvio choking as well.

Wait… Blood?

She opened her eyes dreamily and tried to stand, only to feel a sharp pain in her chest as she did so. Looking down, she stared wide-eyed at her hands. Flesh—she had flesh. She reached up and felt at her face in disbelief; Skin, ears, lips, eyes… everything was where it should be. She was warm, crimson life coursing through her once more to the rhythm of her heart. Squinting, she saw the bullet that had ended her not far away from where she sat.

They were back at the museum.

"There. Happy?" snapped a familiar voice some ways behind her, "I don't have all night, so start talking!" Fuega turned to sneer at the speaker, but could barely see him—standing as far away as he was, he was little more than a black and green blur that gave her a headache the more she stared. Her hands roamed about, searching for her glasses; they couldn't have fallen far. _Where are they?_

"Here,' said another voice. The other mortal took her hand gently in his own, helped her stand, and placed the glasses in her hold. "But you're not gonna like this."

Without a word of thanks, she slipped the glasses onto her face, blinking myopically a few times before discerning why her eyesight was still fairly poor and snarling at the fact. One of the lenses had cracked, leaving her in a near half-blind state. "Wonderful," she grumbled, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "Just wonderful…"

Xibalba cleared his throat, attracting the attention of the two. His scarlet eyes burned with hate, but he kept his voice relatively calm. "I held up my part of the deal: It's high time you do the same. Try to remember that I can _take_ life," somehow, he withdraw a violet snake from behind him, which hissed menacingly at the pair, and with a sharp thrust at the ground that echoed throughout the chamber turned it into staff, "just as easily as I can grant it."

"The camera!" Lluvio exclaimed, "Where's the camera?" He walked away and disappeared behind the pillar he had previously hid by, returning shortly after with the object in question. He flipped it around in his hands for a moment, trying to figure out how it worked beyond taking pictures, and had it gruffly snatched from his hold by Fuega with a roll of her eyes.

With ease, she tapped the side panel and the previous photos appeared on the screen. "There!" she hollered upon finding a good picture of their murderers. She held the camera out to the deity, who took it and examined the screen thoroughly. "We never got their names, but that's them. They said they were planning on selling the book."

Xibalba's fists shook with rage as he abruptly tossed the camera back her way. The force behind it was so great that she nearly doubled over as she clung it to her abdomen. "Selling it?!" he screamed, "You humans… Don't you have any sense of tradition and value for your histories anymore?! Or did that all somehow vanish within the last century?!"

"You're kinda preaching to the choir," Lluvio mumbled behind her.

Fuega continued to scroll through the images, taking in every detail of the two thieves. She would remember them—oh yes, she would! If she ever saw those creeps again—and considering that she got her hands on them before Xibalba and La Muerte did—she would give them a new definition to pain. Stealing ancient relics, their grimy hands mutilating the features of the artifacts, had been bad enough; shooting her had only intensified her fiery hatred. The only thing they had earned so far from their little raid was one irate woman. She swore that she'd risk dying again if it meant getting her hands on them! And even if she couldn't now, she'd wait until she found them in the afterlife to give them a good thrashing.

She scrolled one picture too far—an image of her sneaking a small peak at the Book of Life, a soft, sneaky smile on her lips and the wet cotton ball dripping water onto her pants. She shot a look at Lluvio, who suddenly choose to shy away from her and find an interest in the floor tiles. "We'll. Talk. Later," she seethed through clenched teeth.

With a nervous laugh, he scratched the back of his head and said, "Not tonight, at least… Please? It's getting pretty late and we've got classes tomorrow. Maybe on our next date?"

She balked at him indignantly, screaming, "After all we've been through tonight do you honestly _still_ think I'm going to go out with you?! You didn't even break us in: _I'm_ the one that found the entrance! I could've been just fine by myself!"

"Hey, you'd still be just as dead as we were!" he rebuked, before his tone turned to angry begging, "Come on, Fuega; we made a deal!"

"_Speaking_ of deals," interrupted Xibalba, inspecting his fingers with disinterest, "I'd recommend that you two start looking for The Book of Life immeadiately, if you want to keep breathing."

"What?!" they both asked in unison, confusion and fear etched on their faces.

"Oh," his eyes widened and he look at them with fake surprise, "I didn't tell you? Silly me."

"What?" Lluvio repeated with a gulp, "You didn't tell us what?"

"If I recall," he stroked his beard, gazing down at them in mockingly, "_La Muerte_ agreed to your terms: _I_, on the other hand, never did." Their jaws went slack: Fuega cursed under her breath with realization and Lluvio's heart leapt to his throat. Xibalba smiled devilishly, "You came to ask me for a wager. If you want to live, you'll have to win your lives on _my_ terms."

"Which are?"

"Find the book," he answered simply, "La Muerte and I will be searching as well, but if you find it first, you'll remain in The Land of the Living. And there is one more condition: Tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, you'll need to return with the book safely intact here. If you fail, you lose and," he paused, allowing the news and horror to sink in, "your souls belong to me. You'll be sent to The Land of the Forgotten." Raising his hand, palm upward, silhouettes of themselves appeared in his grasp. With quiet, whispering screams, flakes began to fall off of the miniatures' forms before the completely crumbled in a heap of dust and were blown away by the wind. "I'll make certain that you'll vanish slowly. Piece. By. Piece. Until there's nothing left."

They gaped at him in terror. Fuega clasped her fists to her sides, knuckles white; she didn't even notice that Lluvio draped his arms over her shoulders from behind—all color drained from his face as he held her. "Is that enough incentive?" Xibalba questioned.

"Plenty…" Lluvio muttered.

Still, Fuega managed to summon enough courage to glare up at the immortal. Pushing herself away from Lluvio to take a step closer, she yelled, "Wait a minute! Why drag me into this mess? I didn't even want to make the bet, so it's not fair!"

"Life's not fair," he replied with a smug grin and a shrug, "Neither is death. Of course, you can just forfeit, but it won't change the outcome. You can also _try_ to run and hide, but death always catches you in the end. You'll only prolong the inevitable."

She glowered, but said no more. What else could she have expected from the ruler of The Land of the Forgotten? She'd studied enough about him to know better; she just hadn't thought that she'd be required to tag along.

They heard voices sounding from the passage. Shoving the mortals aside, Xibalba stepped forward, wings flared out threateningly. He had just about enough of intruders for one night.

"It was this way!"

"It's a hall: There's only _one_ way, Sanjay."

"La Muerte! La Muerte! It's us! Are you here?"

Yet as the voices grew louder, he calmed down—though a mild sense of irritation was apparent in his features. Lluvio, however, cringed upon hearing them and began to back away deeper into the shadows of the chamber, hiding before the other two. Fuega turned to raise a brow in question, but never got to ask it as the newcomers entered.

They were children—five very familiar children to be exact—dressed in casual attire: two girls and three boys. Xibalba recognized them instantly as the ones his wife had read a story to earlier that day. As they neared, squinting in the dark with flashlights as their only illumination, they skidded to a halt before him, jaws going slack with surprise. After a few seconds of silence, the smallest of the bunch—a little girl with kinky-curly locks of golden hair—darted forward to wrap her thin arms around him. "Balby!" she squealed.

Xibalba rolled his eyes at the nickname and held out a hand to stop her before she could reach him. "Nuh-uh! No hugs! I'm made of tar, remember? I don't feel like having a little kid stuck to me for the rest of the night."

The little girl laughed in delight and her companions smiled from behind her. "We were hoping La Muerte was here," said the other girl, "We were wondering if maybe she could tell us another story, but maybe you can if she's busy. Please?" The other joined in, pleading.

All save for one. Instead, something caught the littlest child's eye, from behind the immortal and she blinked with guilt and confusion. "Lluvio?" she asked, backing away to join her friends, "I… I thought you said you were going to be on a date tonight." She stared down at her shoes, twiddling her fingers behind her back, before noticing Fuega as well. She beamed, as if forgetting how much trouble she was obviously in. "Is she the lady you say you like? She's pretty! Are you gonna get married? Is she gonna be my sister?"

Ignoring the maddened blush creeping up his neck and Fuega's dumbfounded expression, he rubbed his neck and winced, "Hi, Sasha… You were supposed to stay with Grandma after you got home from school. What are you doing here?"

The guilt returned. "I snuck out," she admitted, "I'm sorry… There was this other pretty lady—La Muerte—and she told us a story and we wanted to hear another story, so we came back… I'm sorry…"

He sighed, stepping over to her, kneeling down on one leg, and holding her close. He ran his fingers through her golden locks. "Nevermind, for now. Just go home and we'll talk about it later."

Sasha returned the hug, burying her head into his chest, and was rewarded with a pained grunt from her older sibling, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied, "Just go home." Then he looked to the others. "That goes for all of you. Your parents are probably worried sick."

"But what about a story?" Sanjay asked, and the others nodded. "Come on, we came all the way here just to hear one more."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in an all but abandoned compound just outside of the city limits, cries of panic and turmoil rang through the night. Through the dark windows, all that could be seen was an occasional blur of golden light racing past with a human figure chasing after it not far behind. However, no one was there to see or hear the chaos within.<p>

"It's cursed! It's cursed!" screamed the most cowardly of the pair of thieves as he dove beneath a wooden table in the dimly light room. The Book of Life, glowing with a brilliant radiance, swiftly oared just over his head. It flitted about in the air, banging around the room in its desperate attempts to escape its captures. However, the doors were sealed shut and the windows too small to break through.

"Shut up and help me catch it!" ordered the other. He climbed onto a chair and lunged for the book as it passed overhead, but missed and fell to the floor with a shout of pain.

The former reached down and his waist and fumbled with his pistol, his hands quivering. They shook even as he took aim.

"No!" the second yelled, he jerked over, shoving his partner's arm downward so that the bullet struck the ground when it was fired. The book splayed open in fright and its panicked fluttering only increased. "You idiot! If you shoot it, it won't be anything _near_ what it's worth now!"

"Forget the money!" the other screamed, "That thing's cursed!" Again, he fired. This time the mark hit true, striking the open book at its bindings and knocking a few pages out in the process. The book stuttered in the air before crashing to the floor, shaking as if in anguish.

The moment it hit the ground, the larger thief dove for it with a rope, quickly sealing it shut and tying it to one leg of the table. Then, he soon turned on the other. "You trigger-happy moron! It's bad enough that the cops will be after us for murder, but now you damage our profits?"

"I don't want to be a part of this anymore!" he yelled back, pushing himself to stand back up, "We're probably cursed now too!"

"There ain't a curse!"

"Then how to explain what happened?!"

The question was never answered as the book began to glow once more. A light shining off of it encompassed most of the room, blinding the thieves. The floor began to quake with a loud rumble.

* * *

><p>Back in the rift, the children, Fuega, Lluvio, and Xibalba noticed the tremors too. It was as though the world itself were falling apart. "Not cool!" shouted the Goth kid, clinging to Jane by one arm, "We survived 2012: This shouldn't be happening now!"<p>

The quakes shook relics out of place, sending them clattering or crashing to the floor. Dust and plaster rained down from above. The children shrieked, terrified by the mayhem around them, and were only quietened into soft whimpers when Xibalba crouched down on one knee and curled his wings around them, huddling them together. Fuega and Lluvio knelt as well, covering their heads with their arms with Sasha safely in between them. The dimly lit chamber fell into complete darkness, with only the green flames of Xibalba's candles and beams of the kids' flashlights piercing through the gloom.

"No…" the immortal gasped once the tremors had ended. Standing once more, he glided down the passage at a breakneck pace. The mortals followed, keeping an attentive eye on the candlelight as they chased after him and feeling their way along the walls.

When they finally exited the museum, they froze at the sight of their new world.

The night sky was blanketed by a terrible, vile-smelling smog of unnatural browns and sickly greens. The stone steps of the museum were aged and cracked, like the ruins of some ancient city, as was the pavement of the empty parking lot before them. The museum itself was boarded up with wooden boards, its large glass windows shattered and doors moaning. And beyond the horizon, the city itself was little more than a wasteland of towering buildings.

"Y-You guys know how I said I wanted to be in the apocalypse movies and stuff?" stuttered the Goth kid, hiding behind them, "I ch-changed my mind…"

"What happened?" asked Lluvio.

"Someone damaged the book. That's what happened," Xibalba replied, "Time's changed. Something from the past was destroyed, and now this is what's become of your future. We were safe during the world's transformation because we were in the rift, and the rift belongs to no realm. I suspect that the thieves were spared their memories as well."

"The book was stolen?!" cried out Jane.

"Well, we have to get it back!" shouted one of the boys. As if in agreement, the children began to race down the stairs—they didn't even know where they were going; they just felt like they had to do _something._

"Hold it!" Fuega ordered. They all paused mid-stride and turned to look at her. She folded her arms over her chest, shifting her weight onto one leg. "Look around you. It's not safe for any of you out there. The only place any of you should be going is home."

"But—"

"Fuega's right," Lluvio interjected, "If any of you want to help, the best thing you can do is stick together, keep each other safe, and find your families. Besides," he glanced over at the immortal, "Xibalba's has already… asked, for mine and Fuega's help to find the book. Everything will be okay." They were quiet for a long moment, but eventually nodded, turning back to walk away. Sasha didn't follow, clutching Lluvio by the pant leg. He nudged her onward, "Go with them, Sasha. Find Grandma."

"But what about you?" she squealed, her fingers lacing tighter into the cloth.

"Everything will be okay," he repeated with a soft smile. It took a little more coaxing, but finally she joined her friends. He watched her go until they disappeared down the next empty street, knowing she was safer with them than she would be with him on their quest.

Xibalba stood still for a long moment before his eyes widened with inner realization. Because of the damage done to the book, The Land of the Living wouldn't just be affected, but all of the realms, including his and La Muerte's. That meant that whatever change of the past may have affected her memory as well. He had to make sure she was alright!

"I have to go," he told the mortals, "but remember: You only have until sunrise. Find the book. Bring it back." And with that, he vanished in a shadowy blur.

"What do we do now?" asked Lluvio with a shrug.

"Give me a minute." Fuega retrieved her flashlight from her bag and retreated back into the passage. When she returned, she held open her palm to Lluvio to reveal clumps of moist, red dirt in her hold.

"Dirt. It's dirt," he raised a brow, "So what?"

She scoffed, "Neither of us went to the desert outside of the city, did we? And I doubt the children did either if they were here earlier today. One of the thieves probably had dirt stuck to their shoes, meaning they came from the desert. It's not much to go by, but they might be back there now."

"That makes sense, I guess," he replied as she brushed her hands clean and stashed the flashlight away once more. "Hardly anyone goes out there, it's not that far, and they probably have some sort of hideout nearby. They can't go much of anywhere as long as they have the book."

"Exactly."

Well, it was a start at least.


	6. Chapter 5

The city that they had once called home had become nothing but a wasteland of glass shards, rusty metal, and ash. Once vibrant with life, the broken streets were now eerily silent save for the occasional bark from a starving dog or the shouts of some person of ill company, sounding from deep down the shadow-cast alleys amid the worn buildings. Most surprising though was that even the graveyard—as they passed by it on this night of all nights—was devoid of visitors, the tombstones cold, bare of flowers, candles, or any sort of decorum, and worn from a lack of care. On some on them, the names had faded so much that it was impossible to tell who the graves belonged to.

Dressed as they were, they stood out like two sore thumbs. What few people they saw were in such a state of poverty and despair that they had little else to wear beyond filthy, aged work garbs. Fuega had left her bag and blazer back at the museum and the pair had slathered themselves with grease and dirt for just that reason. It wasn't the best form of disguise, but it was the only sort they could take under such short notice or else provide some desperate criminal with a reason to mug them.

"So much has changed," Lluvio whispered sorrowfully, "We're never going to make it like this. Maybe we can find a car or something?"

"You mean steal one?" She folded her arms over her chest, looking at him accusingly behind the cracked lenses of her glasses.

He shrugged, "I don't think the rules apply anymore. Not here. You would think there wasn't such a thing as a police force."

"There's probably not. Either way, do you even know _how_ to hijack a car?"

He didn't: He could break into one, but starting it without a key was another matter entirely. Still, he walked off in search of one, leaving Fuega behind and not particularly caring whether she followed or not. He had to at least try _something_ and she didn't exactly seem full of ideas at the moment—just full of complaints. Why was it that every move he made seemed to be the wrong one? She blinked in surprise and only after a moment's delay did she begin to trail behind, rubbing her bare arms to fight the chill of the night air. "Where do you think you're going?" she snarled, "We have to stick together if we're going to find that book, idiot, and it's obvious you don't have the first clue what to do."

"Oh, _now_ you want to stick together?" he snapped, "If I'm so useless than why do you need my help anyway?!"

She backed off a bit, but only returned with another remark in a vengeance, "Because I'm not the one who made the deal! I didn't agree to come back—I didn't even want to meet Xibalba, but you?! You couldn't face reality," she paused, biting the bottom of her lip, "_You_ had to play the dumb, tragic hero—the good guy!"

He opened his mouth to retort, but the words never came. Had she just insulted him or paid him a compliment? He wasn't certain which.

"I'm not going to wind up a pile of dust because of you," she seethed, "You're going to pull your own weight." She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger, one hand on her hip. "_And_ you're going to listen for a change before you get us both killed. I doubt will get another chance: If we die this time, we'll probably just go straight to The Land of the Forgotten."

Insult it was. "Well, we need to pick up speed. If we can't get a car, what are we supposed to do?"

She turned away in thought before spotting something far behind him. As her eyes flickered to the object in question, her brows rose in enlightenment and a smug grin played across her lips. "I think I may have an idea."

Peering over his shoulder he saw a large man of rough character tying a muscular pinto horse to a post before heading into what he assumed to be bar. It seemed that in what had become of their future, technology was sorely lacking—or at least to a point that made cars a sort of luxury, explaining the lack thereof. He shook his head, "Nuh-uh. Bad idea." He assumed that without motorcycles, this was the equivalent of the modern bikers they knew. He didn't want to tempt fate.

"You said we needed speed," she reminded him while slowly approaching the creature.

"Yeah, speed: Not suicide. I thought the idea was that we wouldn't put ourselves in situations that would get us killed anymore."

"Just shut up." As she began to untie the reins from their post, the horse's nostrils flared wide and it snorted with distrust. It stomped one hoof on the ground, sputtering dust around it, and its ears pinned back with warning. But she merely hummed a soft tune and held her hand, palm open, before its face.

He stood still in bewilderment when, after a bit of paranoid hesitation, the horse began to sniff at her hand. Tentatively, it leaned out its snout to brush her fingertips. "How are you doing that?" he asked. It was with the same affectionate manner that she devoted to her studies and all involved in them that she soothed the animal.

"My family used to visit my aunt's ranch every summer when we were kids," she explained, "I rode a lot back then—even camped out in the stalls some nights." Slowly, she maneuvered around the horse, continually stroking its neck as she stopped by its side. Then she hefted herself up onto the saddle, swinging one leg over to the other side with little trouble despite the years without practice. The horse whinnied with refusal, but she soon managed to calm it down once more. Adjusting the reins in her grip, she ordered, "Hop on."

He approached cautiously, adhering to her warning not to walk behind the steed, and clumsily slung himself over the horse to sit behind her. There was an angry shout behind him—coming from inside the bar. Any second now the owner of the horse would come charging out. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"When have I not?" Eyes focused on the streets before her, she briskly tapped the side of the horse and gave a call for it to go. As it suddenly began to canter, Lluvio let out a yelp of surprise and grabbed hold to the cantle of the saddle.

They were already some distance away before the door to the bar was flung open with a resounding bang and the man raced out with a promise of death. "You brats! I'll see to it that the mighty Chakal strings you up for this!"

As they rode off towards the outskirts of the city, Lluvio yelled above the rushing wind, "Who do you think that Chakal is?"

"From the sound of it, no friend of ours," she replied, her face twisted with thought and worry, "But the name seems familiar. I just can't think of where I've heard it."

They found their direct path blocked by the ruins of a fallen skyscraper. As Fuega urged the horse to veer right, the change in direction nearly sent Lluvio sailing off. He instinctively clasped his arms around Fuega's waist, causing both of them to lose balance for a moment. She shot him a look of ire after righting herself. He gave her a nervous smile and tried changing the subject, "So… You have sisters?"

"Two," she answered and paused before asking a question herself, "And that little girl back at the museum… Sasha? She's your sister?"

"Yeah," he sighed, "Sorry about her. She can act a little crazy at times."

Again there was silence before she spoke once more, "She's the reason you were so dead set on coming back… Isn't she?"

"You could say that," he lifted his shoulders in a small, downcast shrug, "Our parents went for a drive about a year ago and… Let's just say they never came back. I already had my own apartment, so I've been taking care of her since. I think she's finally gotten over the grief, but she's not like she used to be: She's always getting into trouble.

"She's already lost Mom and Dad, and honestly Grandma's not gonna last much longer. I can't leave her too, you know? I'm all she's got left. It's more than just having somebody to look after her—I can't let her slip away like she did before."

Fuega seemed to withdraw within herself for a long while after that. Whether she didn't know what to say or didn't have anything to say at all was hard to tell. Only the stomping of hooves upon concrete could be heard for the longest time until he decided to redirect the conversation back to her. "Didn't mean to tell some sob story. What's your family like?"

"Well," she sighed, "I'm the youngest in my family, we're Hispanic on my mom's side, she's a linguist and my dad's a Foreign Service officer…"

"You must not have seen them much then."

She shook her head, "No, not really. But we made it alright."

"What about your sisters?"

"One's a travel agent and the other married well."

He grinned, "There's no guessing to where your passion for cultures comes from then."

"Guess not," with a light smile, "My folks traveled to Mexico and South America a lot and sometimes they'd take us with them, so I guess it came from that.

"I know there are some people out there afraid of the world who think that it's too dangerous to travel, but there's danger everywhere. All we're really doing is isolating ourselves—not just here in the states, but other countries too—and the fact is there's just so much we can learn from each other. I just wish there was a way to make everyone understand."

"It sounds like you've got a plan then," he replied, "What are you planning to do after college, by the way? Well," he chuckled, "Considering we survive this mess first."

"Actually… I don't really know. There's a lot that can be done with a Humanities major."

That surprised him. Of all people, he expected her to have everything planned in life—to begin with the end in mind and have every detail placed before a mistake even had the chance to be made. Not to mention that her family seemed well set in their ways, as if the path before her had been planted by the hands of fate and nurtured by her upbringing.

They were content in the brief calm before the storm, knowing though never speaking the shared knowledge that the night would fail to bring them a moment's rest from that point onward.

* * *

><p>In a spiral of feathers and green fire, Xibalba appeared within his wife's palace. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he looked about. Nothing was out of the ordinary: the servants busied themselves with their evening tasks, the decorum was just as pristine and beautiful as always, light continued to shine above from a seemingly unknown source, and everything was in its place. The Land of the Remembered was still in one piece and he bet the same for his realm. Indeed, the only real difference was that there were far less flowers than he recalled.<p>

With that discovery easing some of his tension, he began to search for La Muerte. "Mi amor?" he called out, raising a brow to some of the curious looks a few of the servants gave him before returning to their work, "We need to talk. Something's happened to the book; The Land of the Living's become nothing but a mess."

Nothing but silence. Perhaps she hadn't returned from her visit to The Candlemaker. Still, he would've expected her to be back by now if not looking for him in turn. He searched throughout the palace for her nonetheless, checking the parlor, the dining hall, the bedrooms, the ballrooms… anywhere and everywhere possible and still she could not be found. Eventually, he resigned himself to asking one of the servants if she had returned.

The servant blinked his golden pupils myopically at the deity. "My apologies, but she is not here," he finally answered, "Did you request her presence for the _Día de los Muertos_ celebrations, my lord?"

"Request her presence?" he repeated with befuddlement. The entire underworld knew that there were no such festivities in The Land of the Forgotten and he had learned a good many years ago could hardly make any sort of 'request' of his wife.

"My apologies," he said again with a dip of his head, eyes on the ground, "I just assumed you would have as you do so every year." While it was true that he and La Muerte often shared the holidays with one another—especially the Day of the Dead—the way the servant worded it and behaved was so strange. There was never a matter of asking for each other's company; they just met whenever the feeling came upon them, which was often as long as their duties didn't get in the way. The servant left to attend to his own duties before Xibalba could inquire anything else.

As he stood there pondering for a long while, the sound of mariachi music poured in from an open window and his eyes widened with thought. Of course! La Muerte was probably overseeing some of the festivities going on. Her prolonged absence must've been putting the citizens of The Land of the Remembered on edge: It would be only logical that she would need to reassure them that everything was perfectly fine. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

But as he opened the palace doors leading to the winding, artfully painted streets outside, his jaw went slack.

It wasn't that bad—not really. As in the palace, little had changed: The Land of the Remembered had always been beautiful over the course of thousands upon thousands of years, and it was still just as fair. However, the dead seemed to lack the sense of life they usually possessed, most certainly more that particular holiday.

And there were fewer of them roaming the streets, Xibalba noted. Where was the excitement and almost to a sickening extent cheerfulness that they usually had? Where were the large bands playing music from every corner of the street, the skeletal children racing through the waves of adults, and the dancers flying about in a rainbow of color? Where was the papel picado? The tapetes?

Not so far away in the distance, he watched as a recently deceased young man appeared in a brisk beam of light upon the streets. He blinked wearily and lifted a hand now of solid bone to cradle his skull. A few passersby noticed the new arrival and cast him a few kind smiles of welcome before going on their way—one even gave him a reassuring pat on the back before leaving the stranger.

What in all of the realms had happened?


	7. Chapter 6

The midnight hour was near by the time they road within sight of the thieves' hideout. The search for the correct building had been painstakingly slow, but a desperate and irritated pair pounding on one's door in the middle of the night had been more than enough to convince neighbors to give up the location.

They neared as close as they dared by horse and tried the steed to a rundown, wooden fencepost before approaching with a silent tread on foot. "What are we going to do if they start firing at us again?" Lluvio asked in a soft whisper.

"Well, then we can't give them the chance, can we?" Fuega retorted. She motioned at the door, before walking around side the building. "You do your thing. I'll see if I can take a peek inside."

He gave a nod of agreement and kneeled in front of the lock, taking his pick out of his sweatshirt pocket. Within a minute, the task was done and as he waited for Fuega to come back around he couldn't help but glance up at the dark sky and wonder how much time they had left until the sunrise—which could very well be his last. He didn't think Fuega was one to exaggerate, but he still hadn't been suspecting to wager his very soul on anything… Then again, he hadn't expected to die tonight either. And he hadn't meant to drag Fuega into this, but then wouldn't she prefer at least taking a chance to live again? It was something he debated.

All in all, he was starting to regret even waking up that morning.

"It's just one of them this time," Fuega whispered as she returned. "Or at least that's all I saw inside. It's the trigger-happy idiot too."

"Was he armed?"

She scoffed, "You ask that like you think I was able to see good enough to tell."

He rolled his eyes, but held back his tongue. Standing, he brushed the dust off the legs of his pants and quietly opened the door just wide enough that either of them could slip in. He paused, and when he didn't hear anything, he stood aside. "Ladies first."

"Aren't you a gentleman?" she voiced flatly, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Even still, she walked right past him and went inside. Lluvio followed and sealed the door shut just as softly as he had opened it, leaving just the barest crack open in case they needed to make a quick escape.

Only one room was lit—the room Fuega ducked behind the doorway leading to. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the thief and she seemed all too tempted to forgoing all sense of subtly and instead attack the man. Lluvio took her by the shoulder, inwardly wincing when she shot her venomous stare his way. "We need to be careful," he reminded her.

"We need to act," she replied. She looked around for anything useful until her eyes finally settled on the shower curtain rod in the nearby bathroom. Quickly and quietly, she darted in, removed the rod from the wall, stripped it of the curtain, and snuck into the other room before her partner could stop her.

The thief sat at the wooden table with his head in his heads, dwelling over the events of that night. As Fuega moved in behind him, he just happened to look up to see her in the reflection of the glass of the window. Gasping, he spun around, pistol in hand. Lluvio shouted her name in fear.

He raised him arm to fire the same moment that Fuega swung the rod at his head. However, instead of hitting the thief, she struck his hand—knocking the barrel to fire downwards so that he only succeeded in shooting himself in the leg. The pistol skidded across the floor at the same moment the man howled in pain.

Fuega didn't relent, continuously hitting the man upside the head with the rod until he was so dazed that she was able to force him back against the wall. Almost at the same time, Lluvio had to storm in and take the beam away from her.

At the sight of the familiar pair, the man went into a panic, screaming about ghosts and curses and begging them not to hurt him. _Maybe she hit him a little too hard…_ Lluvio mused to himself.

"Alright you sleaze ball, where is it?!" she shouted. "Where's the book you stole?! What have you done with that artifact?!"

"Please! It's not here!" he exclaimed, it didn't take much coaxing—or in Fuega's case much screaming—to get the man to talk. He began from the beginning—just after they had died—and told them of the strange way the book behaved: How it had flown about in the air, how they had to wrestle it, how it snapped open and shut at them like an animal… Then when he mentioned the gunfire…

"Wait a minute," Fuega growled dangerously, her eyes narrowing into slits as she reached down to dig her fingers into the man's shirt and her hands quivering with ever-building rage. "You. Did. _What?!_ You're telling me you shot the book?!" Oh, if looks could kill… Lluvio stepped away from her as if to avoid being burned by the vengeful fire behind that deadly gaze.

The thief's expression went from frightened to horrified. Backed against the wall as he was—and as tightly as Fuega clenched his shirt in her grasp—there was no means of escape. He shivered and turned to Lluvio, the calmest of the pair, with pleading eyes. "Please, spirit, forgive me! Get your friend away and leave me alone!"

He balked at the former, "Ok, first of all, dude, you killed us; that's not exactly an easy thing to forgive. And second of all, if there's one thing I've learned in this world it's to never stand in the way of an angry woman. That's just a universal law that should never, under any circumstance, be broken!"

"You shot a priceless, centuries-old relic that's worth more than any of our lives combined?!" Fuega continued to rant, ignoring them both.

"Especially if that woman is _that_ woman…"

"Where's the book?!" she demanded. As the thief slid down against the wall in fear, she pinned him with her knee in his stomach. "_Where is it?!"_

"I-It's not here…" he repeated, stuttering, "My partner took it. Once everything changed, he went out to see if he could sell it. Some leader of some sort—a Chakal, or something—was very interested in it. He went to go meet with him at his palace—where the courthouse used to be."

"That name's popping up more than once today," Lluvio murmured thoughtfully, "It can't be a coincidence."

Fuega released the man, letting him fall on the floor and scoot away from them both as her eyes widened with realization. "Of course! How could I be so stupid…" she cursed to herself, "Chakal's name is nearly everywhere in Mexican history."

Lluvio raised a brow in confusion. "Care to explain?"

"There's a legend," she began as she paced the floor before him, "of a bandit king named Chakal, who once terrorized all of Mexico with his army of thieves. He once had a Medal of Everlasting Life given to him by Xibalba that made him unstoppable until Xibalba took it back. After that, his army still tormented Mexico for a few years, but Chakal himself just kind of faded into an old wife's tale. I never even believed it was true except in folklore."

"So whatever happened to the book—"

"Must've changed Chakal's fate so that he still has the medal," she finished. "That's why he's still around even though it's been so long: He can't die."

Lluvio gulped. "Just so we've gotten the odds out there… How bad is that?"

"That would depend," Fuega shrugged, casting him a sidelong chance and still possessing a bitter demeanor. "What do you think's in-between Doom's Day and Armageddon?"

"Oh!" he laughed nervously, "That bad…"

"We better get moving." Spinning on her heel, she turned to leave. Her eyes were hard and steely with frustration. "We don't have much time left. And I swear if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to teach one in-particular bandit what happens when you mess with history."

Lluvio glanced around for anything useful before following. The gun was still lying on the floor, abandoned, and rather than letting the thief get the opportunity to fire with it again, Lluvio pocketed it under his shirt. A pile of clothes lay stacked in a messy heap in one corner on another nearby room, and atop it was a jacket with the leather torn in some places and a mouth-eaten poncho. He grabbed both to help disguise the in this new world, giving the poncho to Fuega as he exited the building.

"You know," he said, untying the horse from its post, "I think you scare me."

"Good!" she slammed the front door shut and hopped on the horse, helping him up with an outstretched hand.

* * *

><p>La Muerte wasn't in the Land of the Remembered: She wasn't in the Land of the Forgotten. If anyone knew where she could be, it was the Candlemaker.<p>

As Xibalba teleported into the Cave of Souls, he immediately knew that something was amiss. It was far too dark: Normally the place was lit with millions upon millions of bright candles. But instead, they had dwindled into thousands and most were quite dim. It was all too clear that the Land of the Living wasn't fairing well in the slightest.

"Candle Maker!" Xibalba shouted, but the fellow deity was nowhere to be seen. "Candle Maker, I need to talk with you! It's serious!"

He waited in the stone cold silence for several seconds until finally a golden glow appeared behind him. He let out a sigh of relief—at least the Candle Maker hadn't vanished or who knew what chaos would erupt from that—and turned to face him. However, he gasped in shock to see the deteriorated state in which the man was in. Just like the candles, the warmth and light that usually radiated from him had dulled and his eyes were bleak and weary. Instead of bursting with cheer and good mirth, he seemed weighed-down and somber.

Seeing Xibalba, he dipped his head in greeting, but soon focused on a small group of candles that suddenly blew out to his left. If either immortal heard a small cry sounding from them, they tried to ignore it. With a wave of his hand, the candles lifted into the air and were sent somewhere into the depths of the cave.

"You don't look so good. What happened to you?" Xibalba asked.

A soft chuckle sounded from his throat and he gave a light shrug as he faced him once more. "I've seen better years, I'll admit… Why are you here?"

"I have to find La Muerte," he said, stepping forward anxiously. "Have you seen her?"

He raised a brow, "Not since a long while ago, no: Not since a few decades ago to be more exact. She's disguised herself in the Land of the Living ad has been trying to help some of the mortals suffering up there. But you know she's still mad at you. If I were you, I'd give her her space."

"Mad at me for _what_?" Xibalba gripped the Candle Maker by his broad shoulders desperately. "I have no idea what's going on!"

The Candle Maker squirmed free from the Lord of the Dead's hold and back away cautiously. "Dude, did you hit your head or something? Or did you completely forget about the wager you made with that Manolo kid?"

He paused. In his worry, he had nearly forgotten that everyone else was influenced by the change in history. "Could you… refresh my memory?" he offered.

With a wave of his hand, a cloudy mist appeared before them. It swirled about before manifesting a vision of the distant past. Xibalba saw the arena in the Land of the Remembered appear within the mist, and Manolo and the giant bull encompassed by the rising flames. As the bull crashed into the wall, Manolo was knocked back by the force of the vibration, his sword and guitar spinning through the air to crash to the ground some ways from where he himself fell, clutching his side in agony.

At first, Xibalba didn't understand. Everything happened just as it should: Manolo's hesitation to pick up the sword and his decision to take his guitar in its place, his strumming the first cords of his song of remorse and atonement, the bull smacking him across the dirt with one swing of its horn and Manolo's continuation of his song.

But the next moment—as the bull raised its hoof to smash Manolo into the earth—a blinding fire seemed to consume the entire ring with a painful, blinding light. The arena filled with the startled screams of the audience and the entire vision seemed distorted. Overlapping the screams, a shrill, ear-splitting sound blared out. When the turmoil finally ceased and the fires had faded, the late guitarrista's instrument laid in a shattered heap on the ground, its ruined strings in contorted curls.

And Manolo Sanchez was no more.

A woman in the crowd shrieked and some of his fallen family members cried out in name in sorrow and disbelief, but most sat still in confusion. Even the three deities of the afterlife didn't know what to make of what had just occurred out of nowhere. Nevertheless, a wicked smile spread across Xibalba's past self. Over the rippling murmurs, he let out a cry of victory and laughed.

That's when La Muerte snapped. Immediately, she turned on her husband and accused the sudden eruption of light to be another one of his tricks. He held up his hands in defense, denying her accusation and telling her not to be a poor sport, but only succeeding in enraging her further.

And as the immortals continued to argue, the Land of the Living fell into disaster. Having stolen the Medal of Everlasting Life from Joaquin, Chakal became untouchable. Along with his army of bandits, he spread havoc upon all of San Angel until nothing remained but the embers of dying flames and soot. And its people—those who had only just perished and those in the Land of the Remembered alike—were instantly sent to suffer in the Land of the Forgotten.

Little by little, day by day, Chakal and his army took over all of Mexico and then spread his tyranny across the Americas. And, allying alongside some of the world's leaders, he soon held influence over various other parts of the globe as well. Chakal the Bandit King became Chakal the Immortal, and any who opposed his reign were eradicated. People began to lose hope and the more that fell into despair, the more than turned twisted and evil.

Slowly, the world grew cold and even the beliefs in family were expelled from the hearts of mankind. People lost sight in what the memories of their loved ones meant—some even wanted nothing more than to forget, and therefore the Land of the Forgotten grew and those few who made it to the Land of the Remembered only lived on aching for those they would never meet again.

It had been the final straw for La Muerte, and she refused to forgive Xibalba for all that had transpired because of his cheating. With no realm of her own any longer, she found refuge in the Cave of Souls until journeying to the Land of the Living.

As the visions ended, Xibalba stood speechless, his mouth agape and shoulders slumped in numb shock. Though he still bore little love for the majority of mankind, he had to admit that he had developed a begrudging respect for some mortals after the events following the wager concerning Maria's beloved. The repercussions of this alternative world were horrible.

"You have to tell me where I can find La Muerte…" he finally said in a soft voice. "I have to set things right."

"Suit yourself," the Candle Maker sighed tiredly, "Though I'm telling you man, it's not a good idea…" Waving his hand to make the mist appear a second time, he showed Xibalba what at first glance seemed to be nothing but piles of rubble on a small island in the center of a lake. However, a closer look revealed that it was none other than what was left of San Angel in the present. "It isn't what I'd call home, but I guess the rest of the world isn't much better anyway."

_((__**Author's Note: **__First lesson of the new year: Never mess with artifacts around Fuega. Ever. It ends badly...))_


End file.
